Your Birthday Surprise

"'A surprise'? That's all?"

Yes, that was all. In almost every respect he was a great boyfriend. Thoughtful and considerate, in and out of the bedroom (and many other places too). His thoughtfulness included, unfortunately, a propensity to - I don't want to say "hound" when it comes from such a good place - but dammit, that's what I mean. I've never had a birthday, or Christmas present I didn't choose myself. And this birthday, it wasn't so much what I wanted as how I wanted it.

"Yes, a surprise. You can do it. You know all the things I love and everything I love doing. Go forth and ruminate and in one week from today, surprise me." I knew he would take it a little bit to heart. He would prefer that I received a gift that I really wanted and would now be worrying about getting it wrong.

All week he was just a little bit subdued, but I didn't push it. I knew why, of course. I fully resolved to be thrilled with whatever he did for me - just the surprise would be enough to make me happy.

Sunday night came and he made every effort possible. He knew I didn't like gaudy celebrations (no banners or balloons), that cards were a waste of paper (no card), that I did love home cooking (oyster mushroom terrine), but didn't love chocolate desserts (strawberry and prosecco sorbet). He hadn't specifically said that this was my gift, but he had that look as though he were keeping something from me. He was not doing well at concealing it and at times he looked physically awkward, if not uncomfortable. At those times, I had to refrain from smiling until his back was turned.

After a few drinks on the sofa (and some light making out), he suggested we move to the bedroom. I was quite light-headed by this time, and whatever he wanted was perfectly fine by me. He'd made a good solid effort (he only eats or cooks vegan on my behalf) and I was quite prepared to reciprocate that effort in bed.

I was all ready to pull him down on top of me as soon as we got into the bedroom, but he perched on the edge of the dressing table. I sat on the edge of the bed, waiting somewhat impatiently.

"I bought you a gift too," he said with uncertainty.

"You shouldn't have!" I flustered insincerely. About time. As though I hadn't spoken, he continued.

"You said, 'you know all the things I love' and I went away to really think about that." He seemed almost to be having trouble speaking, or at least forming the thoughts behind the words. "I could have got you any number of things. I do know all the music, books, films, clothes, gadgets - everything that you love. Anyone could have got you those for your birthday, so I wanted to give you something that only I could give you."

Now, now he had me interested. This could go one of two ways. Either he had gone all out and bought me something that even in my fantasies I couldn't imagine him buying. Or, I had mentioned something to him whilst drunk/having sex that I didn't really mean and he'd acted on that. Oh please, in the name of all that is holy, let it be the former.

"We've only talked about it once, but I remember you said you loved lingerie."

He was right. We had only talked about it once. My heart froze.

Outside, the universe stopped expanding briefly. Light ceased whizzing by at something like 293,000 kilometres per second and dawdled for a moment, its attention piqued by how I was going to respond. The sound of blood rushing in my ears was, I was sure, audible in the next dimension.

I tried to breathe but couldn't remember the correct sequence. Which was it after breathing in?

"So, I bought you some." He looked down at his feet.

I couldn't understand why, why at this time, why out of all of time, he chose this time to get bashful and start to play coy with me and then I realised that he wasn't looking down at his feet, he was indicating where the lingerie was and oh my god he was wearing it for me. We were drunk the one time that I said I loved men in lingerie and his response had loomed so large in its absence that, suitably admonished, I simply never brought it up again whether drunk, sober, or post-coital.

"Show me," I whispered, with the last of the sharp intake of breath I'd taken what seemed now like the whole Big Bang ago.

Slowly and with fingers I could see he was struggling to control, he undid his shirt.

The black leather underbust corset was timelessly unadorned, with just the boning standing out. It cinched his waist, emphasising the athleticism of his body. It was tight, not quite straining, but now I understood the uncomfortable looks I'd been seeing all night.

So engrossed was I in his chest that I barely realised his trousers were down to his mid-thigh. He had on a wet-look black brief, and his semi-erection was perfectly defined by the stretchy material. Suspender straps hanging from the bottom of the corset secured the lacey top of black fishnets and I was caught by the simple abstract artistry of the black material of the straps against the whiteness of his thighs, framing his groin perfectly. This was beauty, and at no time had I ever felt so much pure desire for him. My every cell cried out for him, for him to be inside me.

Quickly and with a gracelessness born of absolute lust, I undressed. He gently pushed me back on the bed. My own erection was full and hard and, taking each other's cock into our mouths, my birthday proper began.